


An Evening with Crowley

by forestofmyown



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cooking, F/M, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, M/M, Other, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-16 22:36:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9292547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forestofmyown/pseuds/forestofmyown
Summary: Takes place roughly back when Crowley was just a crossroads demon and had his own house.  you sneak up to spy on him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at: http://imaginingmyforest.tumblr.com/
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Deliberately misleading depictions of cooking
> 
> Notes: Rewrite of an earlier fic I did to make it an imagine.

The sight of a blade slathered in red, dripping with the leftover life of what you’re sure was once a lovely young thing, is always something that gets Crowley’s mood up. It didn’t matter what kind of trash day he’d had. Knife piercing flesh, crimson cascading down, is always guaranteed to put him back on his game. You can almost see the tension slipping from his shoulders as he holds his victim in place, cutting again and again and again.

And not just the butchering. He has his rituals to perform, and habits shift the weary body into a state of contentedness, letting muscles resume tasks they are accustomed to, comfortable in, natural by now. Crowley readies his ingredients, dicing and grinding and whatnot, letting the heat build for the finale as he marks off another box in his mental checklist.

Everything’s coming to a climax. He grins, taking his bloody captive across the floor. The room fills with the searing sounds of flesh on hot metal, the sizzle of blood boiling, the smoke of meat burning. And he keeps on smiling.

A hound howls from behind you in the darkness, and you curse.

Crowley cocks an eyebrow. “Ah. Company. Right on time.”

He leaves his corpse to cook, wiping his bloody knife on his apron as he saunters over and opens the glass doors leading out into the dark. There isn’t a moon in the sky, which is clouded over with the threat of a storm, and the blackness encompasses most the back yard, despite the lights out front. He waves out at the nothingness–at you–knife still in hand.

“I keep telling you,” he calls, tsking. “You’re never gonna get passed my dogs.”

And with that, he disappears back into the house. Moments later, you sigh and hop down from your perch by the kitchen window, carefully eying the darkness for any signs of Crowley’s infamous hounds. As usual, you can’t see a thing. Not taking any chances, you move as quickly as you can to follow him inside.

“Well, when I finally figure out where you’re hiding the mutts, I’ll be able to sneak past them.”

Crowley chuckles, reaching for his bowl of spices. He siphons them slowly into the skillet with the slices of sirloin, careful to stir it all, watchful of burns. “Wouldn’t be very good security if I told you where they were, now would they?”

You perch yourself upon an empty bar-stool beside his still bloody cutting board, trying to pull off a sulk convincingly. It melts when Crowley shoots a grin over his shoulder as he reaches for his oil and lets it drizzle into the frying pan.

“Didn’t tip off any of the guards, though, did I?”

“Course not.” Crowley returns jovially. “But you’ve been doing this for long enough that I expect they don’t even bat an eye at the sight of a shadow jumping over my wall.”

He sets the skillet down and wipes his hands on a towel. “Bad for my safety, you are.”

“Please,” you pop a stray grape tomato into your mouth, which provokes an “Ah eh eh!” from the chef. “Is there seriously anyone foolish enough to mess with you? You’re like the Godfather.”

Ego stroked, Crowley pulls out an open bottle from his kitchen rack and pours you both glasses. You throw back your drink, downing the gulp with a visible tremor. He laughs out loud at your reaction, he always does. You hate this particular drink, but every time Crowley hands you a glass, you take it.

“Food ready yet?” You try to cover the cough the alcohol has caused.

“Hold your horses, I just put the steak on, for goodness sakes.” He sips his own drink, swirling the ice around. “And I’m not even gonna mention the croissants.”

“What’s wrong with the croissants?”

“Bloody everything!” he bellows, thrusting his arm out accusingly at the oven. “I try something new and what happens? My normally beautiful, golden, fluffy rolls of goodness just collapse!”

You drop off the stool and lean down next to the offending appliance, flipping on the tiny light so you can see inside. “Huh. I see. What happened?”

“What happened? Nothing happened! They’re friggin flat-breads!” Crowley shakes his head and takes another long drink. “Mercy.”

“They don’t look bad.”

“Don’t you start defending them. Blasted things are going in the trash where they belong.”

“I wanna try one.”

“You aren’t eating that garbage.”

“Nothing you make could ever be garbage.”

The bottle in his hand stops halfway to his glass. “Now you’re just kissing up.”

“I don’t deny it.”

“ … one bite.”

You stand and smile, childishly and sincerely. “You’re an angel.”

Crowley smiles right back. “I’m really not.”


End file.
